


Is That All You've Got?

by ajeepandleather



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Bad Touch, Blood, Cuddling & Snuggling, Derek is a Good Alpha, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapped, Kidnapped Stiles, Knives, Language, M/M, Mild torture, Rescue, Sassy Stiles, Warning: Kate Argent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-16
Updated: 2017-01-16
Packaged: 2018-09-18 00:44:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9355748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ajeepandleather/pseuds/ajeepandleather
Summary: I saw some amazing fan art on the Tumbs and had to write a thing. So, here I am, with the thing.ORStiles gets kidnapped and just doesn't know when to shut up. Little does he know, every hit he takes, doesn't just hurt him.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TroubleIWant](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TroubleIWant/gifts).



> Thanks Ao3 senpai for the encouragment, this would have ended up as just a draft, never to be completed if not for that little push!

Stiles was grinning. Smiling to the point where he probably looked like someone released from a psyche ward. Well, he had been at point in and then released from a psychiatric ward, but that wasn't the point. The point was that he probably looked like a loon when he smiled with blood dripping from his nose and into his mouth.

  But that's alright, because he had begun to notice that when his captors weren't beating the ever living daylights out of him, they looked a little wary. Like they were concerned about his mental health considering he smiled with a chipped left incisor tooth and a pretty dark bruise under his right eye.

  They had been at it for what felt like an eternity, but what Stiles guessed had only been a couple days. Just a few days after being forcefully removed from his Jeep at the gas station late one night after transporting a rather grumpy Sourwolf. Stiles hated to be considered a taxi service (especially when Derek had a car of his own) but he couldn't help the way he found himself muttering half-heartedly as he pull on a pair of pants and shoes.

  But, who cares about that really, cause now here he is. Strapped to a chair in the middle of an exceptionally bare room in what seemed like an apartment. Stiles had had plenty of fun the first round of flying fists taunting a red head with a major Napoleon complex. Going on and on about how he would never see his deposit if he got Stiles’ blood on the floor or how much of a bitch blood was to get out of carpet.

  (Stiles would know, bleeding werewolves were not an uncommon appearance in the Stilinski house.)

  Even now, after several rounds of punches, kicks and slaps, Stiles still managed to smile and throw around his sarcasm. They may have bruised his ribs, but Lord knows it take a lot more than that to break his impeccable snark. If not for the beatings, Stiles might even consider this fun, especially when Mr. Doesn't Say A Word comes with his class ring and "you little shit" looks. Stiles likes him more than Napoleon Complex.

  Stiles is snapped from his thoughts by the door to his room slammed open. Stiles would swear they had no idea a door is like ten pounds and doesn't take  _ that much force  _ to open one.

  "Seriously, guys, one of these days the door is gonna fly off the hinges and that deposit is as good as  _ gone. _ " Stiles supplies helpfully as Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dum enter with their usual sour expressions. Nothing like Sourwolf though. No, Stiles has no impulse to smooth out their crinkled foreheads with the pad of his thumb or coax a smile with the press of his own. But, just like Sourwolf, the gesture would only result in bodily harm.

  "So, which one of you is first?" Stiles whips out a grin as the men stalk forward. He must look like Hell. He can feel the blood seep from a cut just above his eyebrow and usually when the men leave, he tries to tilt his head to the side so the blood keeps out of his eyes. His hoodie is a mess around his shoulders and his shirt has been ripped in too many places for him to remember. He can feel the ache of a rather large bruise under his collar-bone and every muscle in his body is coiled too tight to be healthy.

  Neither men say a word when they finally reach him, simply start untying his hands behind his back. Stiles is so shocked by the notion, he can't think of a word to say, lest he accidentally breaks whatever voodoo their under to be releasing him.

  Of course, any hopes he may have had go out the fucking proverbial window when Napoleon complex holds his wrist in a death grip while Mr. Vow of Silence reaches for the hem of his shirt.

  "YO! This is qualiFIED AS BAD TOUCH, MISTER!" Stiles raises his voice as the fabric of his shirt and hoodie are tugged none too gently over his head and muffle his protest. He wriggles as much as possible but that only tangles him in the fabric causing Mr. Mime to grunt in frustration before Stiles hears fabric ripping. 

  "Hey, this is my favorite hoodie!" The articles of clothing are pulled away from his all too prone body and leaves him open to the colder than entirely necessary air. He shivered as the men then proceeded to retie his hands. 

  While Mr. Mute did his best boyscout impression behind him, Napoleon complex simply smirked at the state of Stiles torso. 

  "Like what you see, honey-boo?" Stiles fluttered his lashes, wiggling his hips as best he could tied to a chair. 

  "As a matter of fact?" Stiles couldn't help the way his mask of snark dropped to horror as the man came forward and proceeded to stroke along Stiles chest. He did all he could to curl in on himself to avoid the man's wandering touch. He pressed on a particularly colorful and large bruise just above his hip. “I hear she likes cutting bruises, says it hurts more.” The man laughs, brushing over one of Stiles’ nipples before pulling away completely.

  “What’s that suppose to mean?” The question is suppose to come out sarcastic and with a stronger tone, but all Stiles can manage is just ensuring his voice doesn’t break.

  “I guess you’ll find out.” The man shrugs before following Mr. Wordless out  the door, leaving him to his own thoughts in a now  _ eerily  _ empty room.

  See, in all the time that he had been stuck here, it had always been something along the lines of abuse. He was being knocked around, what felt like, for the fun of it. Probably just bait for the pack, but this new information on this “she” put his head in a tailspin.

  That sounded like  _ torture _ . 

  What could he possibly know that torture was now on the table? Sure, he was a part of the pack and he knew things, but it’s not like he harbored any great and magnificent secrets.

  His musing are cut short by the door opening once again, and Stiles thinks he may be missing Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dum.

  “Hello, darling. Don’t you look lovely.” Kate Argent purrs from where she leans in the doorway, the long handled taser buzzing menacingly at her side.

  “I would say the same but I associate your face with the ugliest pits of Hell, so it would be a lie.” Stiles somehow sneers back. This is the bitch that hurt Derek, the reason he turns away to smile and leaves pack movie nights when general sitting proximity leans more toward a puppy pile.

  “Well, that’s nice to hear.” She smiles and pushes off from the doorpost. “Now, how’s for a little change in scenery?” She cocks an eyebrow as she moves forward. 

  “Oh, but this is such a pleasant arrangement.” Stiles drawls, gesturing to the completely empty room around him with a tilt of his head. She laughs before crouching behind him. 

  “I’m going to untie you, but you have to be a good-boy,” Her lips brush the shell of his ear and behind it as her breath slides down his neck. He can’t help the shiver his body releases.

  “Does my reputation not proceed me? I’ve never been one to follow directions.” Stiles twists his face away, as if he could escape Kate’s perfume.

  “Oh, it has. That’s why I brought this.” She says cheerfully, bringing her elongated taser into his view. “It can bring down werewolves, easy. Never had the chance to try it on a human.”

  “Well maybe you should shove it up your a-”

  “Now, now, Stiles, no need for that. Let’s get a move on.” The ropes drop from his wrists and his legs had never been tied down. He stands on shaky knees and is prodded along by Kate’s presence behind him.

  He’s led through the apartment that he now realizes is a house. Kate directs him down hallways and then into a basement.

  “You know, this is all a little too  _ Fifty Shades of Grey  _ for my taste. And I prefer dinner and drinks before all the sexing up happens.” Kate merely snorts behind him as she flicks on a light.

  If he thought the taser was terrifying, with all its perfect capability to kill him, what’s in front of him makes his heart sink like lead and stomach twist in trepidation. 

  It’s a chain link fence, and when he looks he spots the wires leading to a car battery and a crude dial set up. Just like Derek.

  “Sorry, honey, old habits die hard.” She laughs, pushing him forward. He mindlessly follows, trapped in the swirl of thoughts. This is what Cora told him about, the horror stories of Derek’s time in torture with the hunters.

  Kate is chaining him to the fence, wrists above his head, held up by a hook. Ankle straps that kept his knees apart by a foot or so. He doesn’t snap to until she’s already snapped the second ankle cuff into place.

  “And what do you think you’ll be getting out of this, exactly? Secrets? Pack information? The entire documented history of circumcision? ‘Cause let me tell you, I know  _ a lot  _ about those who are uncut.” 

  “I’m not wanting anything you can tell me, Stiles.” She stands in front of him, but doesn’t look into his eyes. No, her gaze is sweeping over his chest, stopping every few seconds to admire his bruises.

  “Then why the fuck am I here, sweetheart?” Stiles looks up at where his hands are hooked to the ceiling. His heart is racing and the shaking in his hands is getting worse with his continued withdrawal from Adderall. 

  “I’m having fun.”

  “Chaining up underage boys? We all have our kinks, but consider yourself shamed.” He sneers, unable to hold back his hatred for the woman who systemically scarred anything soft Derek might have been.

  Kate doesn’t acknowledge his comment, simply levels her taser with his navel, circling it in a way that makes him want to hurl. She shifts her attention to the bruise on his hip and presses it. Hard.

  “You know, maybe you need to get laid, then you might relax.” He grinds out rather than giving her the satisfaction of the hissed breath he wants to release. She continues to poke and prod at his injuries, like she’s cataloguing her favorites.

  “Maybe that’s why you went after Derek? Couldn’t find anybody to even fuck you back to front? Is that why you go after little boys who don’t know any better?” The last part of his sentence is strained when she uses her bony fingers to squeeze his ribs.

  “That’s all kinds of messed up, right there. Maybe Daddy didn’t love you enough? Too concerned with chasing werewolves.” He can’t help the pained yelp that he lets go of when her fist connects to where she had been earlier squeezing. 

  “Oooh, is someone tender?” She smiles up at him, all cruelty and evil glint.

  “Don’t you know that’s one of my pleasure noises?” He smiles back, the dried blood below his nose flaking and falling with the movement. All he gets is another solid thump to his already screaming ribs.

  “Gotta say, darling, you’ve held up well.” She turns away and walks towards a shadowy corner. Stiles finally notices a table, like the kind a dentist uses - silver and creepy looking.

  “Man, I’m a sucker for praises. Definitely a kink, it’s got me all tingly.” He tells her, but he can feel how his heart is hammering and the way his lungs constrict. 

  Kate turns around and this she’s holding a blade. Nothing too extravagant or big, just a solid looking hunting knife. Stiles thanks whatever god may be out there that Kate can’t hear his heartbeat.

  “You have such nice, pale skin, Stiles. Care if I mark it up? Do you have a possessive kink?” Her smile is no longer playing at their snarky banter, it’s unadulterated darkness.

 She steps forward and begins to trace the faint lines of definition along his abdomen. 

  “Woah there, you don’t get to just cut into me without a reason here, bitch!” The pressure on the blade’s tip increases fractionally, leaving trails of irritated skin, rising and faintly red.

  “You see, Stiles, you’re the one all tied up. I may do as I please.” And without further ado, or even a villain's monologue she makes the first cut.

 Napoleon complex was right, it does hurt more when you cut a bruise. So much more. The pain is hot and real and insistent. Stiles writhes and twists in pain but nothing stops Kate from her task. At least, not until she herself deems the cut finished.

  “Enjoying knifeplay, honey?” Kate asks, the glint in her eyes shining bright.

  “Is that all you’ve got?” His breathing is heavy, but he still manages a smirk.

  The smile stays for hours somehow. Hours of punches and Kate’s ringing laughter and that damned knife. Hours of Stiles’ hands going numb while his wrists and ankles are rubbed raw by his restraints. Hours of hope slowly bleeding out of him the longer rescue doesn’t come. 

  “Why are you doing this?” He rasps out, he’s long since given up in holding back screams, but that hasn’t ended the snark.

  “I’m not one of your silly comic book villains, kiddo. It isn’t that easy.” Stiles lets his head fall backwards, letting out a sigh of frustration. He hurts and it’s been so long since he’s had food or water or Adderall. His mind is a mess and his body screams in protest to every limited amount of movement he makes.

  “But you already said you don’t want information, so why are you hurting me?” He’s avoided the phrase “hurting me” this entire time, not willing to give her that victory. But he’s held it like a valuable card, so now he’s going to play it.

  “Come on, Stiles, why are you worth kidnapping?” She asks with a playful lilt. She walks off to her dentist’s table, which he now knows hold many knives and beating sticks.

  “I’m obviously the weakest, I’m the human.” He says, the humor wilting in his voice.

  “Besides logistics, darling. What’s the purpose?” He scrunches his nose, thinking as hard as his scrambled head will let him. “Come on, you’re the smart one. Prove why Derek keeps you around.” She sneers.

  “You’re using me as a message.” He says plainly. 

  “You betcha.” She smiles, coming back around with another new knife. Stiles couldn’t even find it in him to bring his heart rate up. He was bone deep tired and the blood loss was getting to him.

  “Scott is going to whoop your ass.” Stiles explains, smiling at the thought of Scott tearing her to shreds in beta shift.

  The comment causes Kate to stop in her tracks and for a moment Stiles is very confused. Sure, Scott was a werewolf, pretty scary by default, but to a tried and true cold-blooded hunter?

  “The fact that you don’t know makes this all the better, doesn’t it?” The smile from Hell, that he knows will haunt him, returns as she presses the blade to the skin below his collarbone.

 

***

 

  Stiles is hanging limp when Derek finally finds him. It tooks days of following dummy scent trails and “anonymous” tip calls with the female voice that will always haunt his worst nightmares.

  Days of playing games and the bitter taste of defeat knowing he didn’t find Stiles until the bitch let him. 

  Days of Scott’s endless pacing but Derek couldn’t find it in himself to bark at him for it. Days of Isaac’s pitiful whining and Lydia’s disastrous hair. Days of a pack slowly falling apart without its glue.

  Sleepless nights were not a new occurrence for Derek, but there’s was something different about this kind of insomnia. A new, lonelier kind of edge to every hour that passed without the barest hint of sleep.

  But here he is, still strung up in chains, held to the chain link with straps. Derek can smell the nauseating mix of blood and electrified flesh. The smell of pain and misery and hopelessness. But, a surprising lack of the salty scent of tears.

  He leaps across the room where the boy’s prone body hangs and wastes no time to remove his restraints, keeping his mind carefully blank. 

  Stiles collapses in a heap into his open arms and Derek scoops him up as gently as possible when Stiles doesn’t wake up. But he doesn’t allow himself to panic, no, that fluttering bird-quick heartbeat is still thudding along, so the world isn’t coming to a complete halt.

  As Derek climbs the stair he registers the lack of noise and looks up. The two hunters they had found guarding Stiles had been efficiently taken down by Scott and Isaac. 

  “Stiles…” Scott’s eyes are pleading and pained, seeing his best friend looking so fragile in Derek’s arms. He reaches out and strokes the boy’s hair back and to run a thumb along his cheekbone, but doesn’t try for anything more.

  Isaac, too, assures himself of the human’s heartbeat and scents him gently before moving out of Derek’s way. They understand what Derek needs, he needs to be a good Alpha. Reassure himself that he can protect and care for his pack.

  “Call Lydia, she’s probably on edge waiting to scream. I’ll call when we’re ready.” The betas nod as Derek exits the house and takes the bod- boy in his arms to the Camaro.

  He lays him gently in the passenger seat and keeps a hand on him while he drives, unwilling to let go,to relinquish that comfort. 

  Once at the loft, Derek is quick but steady in getting him up the stair and into the apartment. Hyper aware of his movements as not to jostle Stiles and wake him, or worse, cause him more pain.

  As far as Derek is concerned, the couch doesn’t exist while he goes to settle Stiles down somewhere comfortable. He is driven by the instinct of knowing the Alpha’s scent calms betas and the need to see Stiles as comfortable as possible.

  Derek removes the boy’s shoes and strips him of the tattered jeans, then leaves as returns on werewolf speed to redress him in one of Derek’s sleep shirts and a pair of sweatpants. 

  He cringes at the sight of every bruise and feels tears sting behind his eyes as he adopts a glacial pace to clean the cuts with a warm wet rag. After the cuts are cleaned and dressed he places a hand on Stiles’ abdomen and begins to leach the aches and pains.

  He nearly blacks out with the amount of hurt he draws and nearly misses the contented sigh Stiles’ lips release into the silent air of the bedroom. 

  Derek had planned to take the couch, to give the human space and comfort of an open bed. But the pain withdrawal is too much and he collapses on his side, fully dressed in bloody clothes, over the boy’s legs.

 

***

 

 “Der?” A raspy voice grabs his attention and pulls him from the most peaceful sleep he’s had in Lord knows how long. But the ascent into consciousness isn’t the usual sudden jerk to the realm of wakefulness. It is a slow and easy slide into blinking the bleariness from his eyes, wrapped in warmth.

  Derek turns his face up, towards the sound of his name and blinks Stiles into focus. He’s still lying across the boy’s shins and Stiles is smiling down at him.

  “You’re alive.” Is all Derek can manage, voice cracking. The heart beat he had grown so unwittingly fond of had almost been snuffed out.

  “Come here.” Stiles made grabby hands and what was Derek suppose to do, other than instantly comply. Stiles smelled like warmth, sleep and the dull ache of pain that wouldn’t go away for days maybe even weeks. 

  Before settling back down, Derek slid his hand gently under the night shirt that Stiles wore, leeching the pain with black lines up his arms.

  Stiles sighed, sinking further into the mattress as the pain left him and the relief settled over him like a heavy blanket, making him boneless. Finally, with the human pliant and content, Derek laid down on his side. He ran his fingers up and down the boy’s forearm, more to comfort himself, too selfish to fully pull away.

  “I’m okay, Der.” Stiles mumbled, a near-whisper in the fragile quiet of the room.

  “You weren’t.” Derek resolutely stares at the way he moves the arm hair back and forth, unable to meet Stiles’ eyes.

  “I’m alive, though.”

  “You’re still hurt.”

  “You saved me.” Stiles shrugs, as easy as that to him. No worries or cares, because he has full faith that Derek will save him.

  “But what if-” Derek is cut off by a clumsy hand coming the cover his mouth to stop the words.

  “Shhh, Sourwolf. You saved me this time, and the time before that and the time before that.” Derek almost thinks that Stiles has fallen back asleep when the hand over his mouth moves.

  He tracks the boy’s hand as it makes its way up to his forehead. There, Stiles’ thumb presses down on the space between his brows and moves a little back and forth.

  “What ar-”

  “Shhh. Come ‘ere.” Derek props himself up on his elbow and the hand drops from his face. Stiles laughs when he finally sees his face over him. “You and your grumpy scowl.” The hand is raised again and the thumb is pressed against his skin. The he realizes  _ Stiles is trying to erase his frown.  _

  Derek lets the muscles in his face relax and is rewarded by a smile so bright it may have blinded Derek momentarily because by the time he blinks again he is substantially closer to Stiles’ face.

  He stops there for a moment and looks at the face below his. The cut above his eyebrow will fade without a scar and the bruise below his right eye has already gone down in swelling. But beyond that, Derek sees  _ Stiles.  _

  He sees amber eyes, warm like lying down in a patch of sun and coming home after a too long day. He sees whiskey eyes that burn in his chest and make him trip over his own feet. He sees lips with a shy smile reserved with baby pink blush. He sees a toothy grin that unnerves some of their greatest enemies with the sharp intelligence that lies behind it. He sees cheekbones asking to be gently scented with the tip of his nose or the brush of his thumb. He sees cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass, or his heart.

  “Derek,” Stiles whines below him, maybe a little breathless, “kiss me already.” Derek can’t help the soft, fond smile that escapes him. He leans down just those few extra inches and presses probably the most chaste kiss of his life.

  Their lips simply slot together, Stiles’ bottom lip caught between his own. He tilts his head with a sigh as Stiles opens up just enough to secure the hold he has on his upper lip.

  And that’s where they remain, kissing so slow it could probably barely be considered kissing, until Derek’s muscles start to ache and he detaches to lay down.

  Stiles simply rolls to his side, facing Derek and curls up until his head is under the Alpha’s chin and has a firm grip on the front of his shirt. Derek takes the liberty of fitting one leg between Stiles’ and the other to be gently placed over the boy’s hip. 

  “You’re a good Alpha, Derek.” Stiles rubs the tip of a slightly chilly nose against his throat, most likely knowing exactly what he’s doing. He’s too smart not to. “You may not believe it, but the pack knows. I know. One day you will, too.”

 “But-” Stiles’ hand comes up once again, although this time less tender and loving and more flopping and fond.

  “No ‘but’s. I’m tired, I’m safe, you’re tired, we kissed. Everything is okay, Sourwolf.” Stiles yawn, fanning hot air across his neck. “Just let it be okay.”

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on Tumblr [@ajeepandleather](http://ajeepandleather.tumblr.com)! And feel free to hit me up in the comments if any fic ideas you want to bring to life!!


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